


Cinq

by pimpmypaws



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpmypaws/pseuds/pimpmypaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt: Sherlock on his knees while everbody, EVERYBODY, wanks off and comes on him...Or if it's a bunch of bad guys and non-con that's fine too. Or a bunch of "not bad guys" and non-con...The point is, Sherlock covered in cum. Dark and dirty heartily encouraged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinq

His coat is ruined. Sherlock's fingers slide over the coarse material as he examines the stains, knowing he won't be able to get them out. There are four splotches of white ground into the thick wool. He chips at one of them idly with his fingernail before draping the coat over the kitchen chair. 

It would have been worse if he had been naked, but he can't help but wish his coat had been spared. He'll bring it to the dry cleaner, but even if they do manage to save it he isn't sure if he'll ever wear it again. 

It's a shame. He liked that coat. 

He looks up from the length of dark wool at the sound of the door opening. He watches John toe off his boots and hang up his jacket before approaching the kitchen. John moves easily, lightly, a good day at the surgery then. 

"And what did you get up to today?" John asks, glancing over the mess strewn over the table. It's the same mess left over from the day before. 

Sherlock sees the moment he notices the stained coat and reaches out to stop John's hand as he grabs for it. He winces as his sore shoulder protests the movement.

"Leave it," he says.

John looks up at him, eyes hardening as he spots the matted blood in his hair.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

*

He should have brought John. If he hadn't been alone, maybe it wouldn't have happened. But he wasn't solving anything, there was no case, no reason to believe he would need a friend with a firearm. It had simply seemed like a useful way to spend his day, collecting soil samples by the Thames. He was looking for differences between the soil in various areas as part of his ongoing study on the identification of mud.

There were five men. He had heard them approaching him as he crouched by the water, of course he had, could tell from their footsteps that three of them were dockworkers and the other two were white-collar workers. His mind was split between the clay pipe he was digging out of the dirt before him and the approaching footsteps at his back, no part left watching for the heavy rock that flew at the back of his head.

The man's aim was off, the rock barely clipped the side of his head, but it was enough to knock him off balance and give the men time to pin him.

As he lay facedown in the dirt, the pipe jabbing into his ribs and several knees on his back, he couldn't help but be surprised. His arms were wrenched behind him, something sharp and plastic digging into his wrists as they were cinched behind his back. He turned his head to the side, sucking in a breath of cold London air, and tried to get a glimpse of his captors before a dark hood was pulled over his head.

He listened hard as the men pulled him to his feet. His head throbbed slightly where the rock had clipped him, slowing his mind. He could tell that two of the men were talking, but he couldn’t understand them. 

They didn’t walk far. He heard a door opening and felt the surface under his feet change from dirt to concrete. One of the warehouses along the river, obviously, and close enough to where he had been that he could picture the outside of the building clearly. Not the cleverest kidnappers he’d ever encountered.

“Is there something I can help you with?” He asked as they walked. 

The man holding his left arm chuckled. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

He was dizzier than he originally thought. He must have been hit harder than he’d counted on. It was a relief to be pushed down onto a chair, even though his bound hands pressed uncomfortably against the wooden back.

“Do tell,” he said. He was suddenly glad for the hood. Spinning blackness was easier to stand than a spinning world.

“You see, Mr. Holmes—“ Ah, so they knew him. This wasn’t just a random act of malice. That narrowed down the possibilities. “We’ve heard you have some interesting talents that may be of use to us. Don’t worry, if you tell us what we need to know you won’t be hearing from us again and we don’t plan to hurt you.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but grin underneath the hood. “In that case, I would have preferred you contact me via email as do most clients, rather than throwing a rock at my head.”

Despite the pain flaring in his skull, he could hear truth in the words of the man speaking. They had no intention of killing him. There was something else there, though, something that he couldn’t quite puzzle out from the tone of the man’s voice. If only he could see his face.

Another man spoke this time, voice coming from somewhere to Sherlock’s right. Three feet from his elbow. A young man, a smoker by the sound of his voice, and poorly educated.

“Our shipments have been getting intercepted somewhere,” the new man said. “We think there’s someone squealing and we need you to tell us who.”

Sherlock inclined his head slightly to show his understanding as the remaining members of the group filled in details.

*

It wasn’t a difficult case. Of course, without firsthand knowledge of the men involved outside of what he could deduce from the voices of those present it was impossible to know for certain, but under the circumstances he felt he had provided the best possible answer. The men seemed satisfied, although the gruffest sounding man, the one who had been the victim of a little-considered barb, was obviously unhappy with Sherlock’s attitude.

“Now that that’s cleared up,” Sherlock said. “I would be greatly obliged if you would allow me to return home.”

A general sound of amusement filled the room. Sherlock turned his head back and forth, trying to ascertain the positions of the various men. Some had obviously moved and all sounded closer than they had been during the earlier discussion. Something was happening, some plan was being put into action, but what was it? A strong hand grasped his right arm, hauling him to his feet a moment before a foot connected with the back of his knee, with the result that his legs gave out from under him and his shoulder wrenched as the grip on his arm supported the full weight of his body. 

The hand released and he collapsed onto his knees. Unable to balance himself without his bound arms, he fell forward onto the concrete. His head swam from the impact, pain shooting through his skull. He grimaced, concentrating on not crying out, but unable to stop the moisture that clouded his eyes. 

“Oi, what did you go and do that for?” One of the men exclaimed above him as hands pulled at his shoulders, forcing him into a kneeling position. He spread his knees, trying to balance himself and remain upright.

“I thought we were going to have a little fun before we let him go?” Another voice said. Sherlock’s mind felt like sludge, unable to keep up with their meaning.

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to be so rough with him.”

He felt something akin to gratitude for that voice of reason, at least until the sound of several zips being dragged down worked its way through his muddled thoughts. He heard the rustle of clothing, soft sighs and groans around him, and a slick sound of skin on skin.

He braced himself for the inevitable hands grabbing at his clothing, pulling his coat from his shoulders, dragging his trousers down his legs, but no hands came. He felt nothing, just knelt with his head bowed and concentrated on the sounds. His face burned with the knowledge of what they were doing, that these smugglers were getting off on overpowering him. Not being able to see them helped, not being touched helped. He tried to shrink into himself, pulling his limbs in tighter against his body as though he could escape the circle of men simply by pretending not to be there.

The first loud groan came from behind him and he felt the heat of the man’s body as he leaned in closer. The three layers of expensive fabric between him and the man’s cock meant he couldn’t feel the splatter of warm come against his back, but he couldn’t help twitching away from it all the same. Then the same sound, hitching breaths followed by deep, guttural moans, came from all sides and he sensed more than felt three of the remaining men finishing on him. Unable to pull away in any direction, he shivered in the safety of his clothes, fighting back the disgust rising in his throat.

His eyes were closed behind the hood as he desperately hoped it would be over, but he knew there were five, knew there was one more man. 

“Hold him,” The man grunted. It was the gruff man, the one Sherlock had insulted earlier. Hands gripped each of his shoulders as another hand ripped off his hood. He blinked furiously as his eyes were assaulted by a bright light. He tried to focus, tried to fight back the queasiness from his aching head as well as the bile in his throat, but the hot spurt of come on his face was still a surprise. Before he could look up at the man in front of him the hood was pulled back over his head, smearing the come down his cheek and chin.

The hands released his shoulders and he felt something sharp low against his back before it cut through the bindings on his wrists. He slumped to the ground, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his freed arms around them. The come on his face rubbed against the hood, spreading it around and he nearly retched at the smell, taking deep breaths through his mouth to calm the clenching in his stomach. 

Footsteps moved away from him and he heard the door open and close. They left him.

*

"Sherlock?" John's calm voice asks again.

Sherlock shakes his head, regretting it as the movement pulls on his shoulder. "Oh, I had a little mishap by the river. If you would be so kind as to take a look at my shoulder."


End file.
